


The pros and cons of an IUD, or Confessing attraction.

by skinnylittlered



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4310598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming to terms with having your panties constantly not-dry for a dude that’s both hot and smart, OFC finds, is especially hard when you’re living in the same building with said both hot and smart dude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The pros and cons of an IUD, or Confessing attraction.

“You have a type,” she told me, as the others mutely nodded in knowing approval, a sense of content finality softening the solemnity of their features – my handful of best friends sitting on the leather recliners in the room, akin to an epiphanic choir of the world’s most overdramatic angels as portrayed in a would-be comedic sitcom.

“I have a type.”

The incredulity crinkling in the corners of her eyes at the dryness of my tone, although deftly concealed from those not knowing her, failed to escape me, and I found myself as much unable as unwilling to curb the reflex simmering of angered impatience at the unpardonable condescension of her mannerisms – how  _dare_  she tell the truth out loud, and to my face, nevertheless! My stubborn denial served me no purpose, but was imminent in its wake, and surprised neither them nor me; although with characteristic fervour, the sentiment invested in it was far too thought out to be genuine, to further validate my ludicrous thesis. On my part, it was a battle already lost, and laughably so, as there had been no conflict to begin with: fact is fact and, unless combated with some serious, well thought out arguments, remains irrefutable in its assertions, whether I acquiesce to it or not, which I perhaps would have, if it hadn’t been for the disadvantageous conditions of my temporary dwelling.

Aware of the improbability of my amiable concession my friend shrugged and steered the conversation in an entirely different direction, wisely salvaging her smooth complexion from any permanent damage attempting to have me confess would do. To their utmost disappointment, there would be no overenthusiastic spillage of my emotional gut, not yet, at least, and out of all people, they knew better than to coax it out of me, by the employment of, mildly put, nefarious means, after that one unfortunate night a few years back when alcohol proved to be more of a foe than a friend both to them and to my weak stomach.

Their martyrly virtue would be vastly rewarded in time.

***

There’s elderly tranquillity to his impatience, even, and wisdom in the modulated clarity of his voice. And, while his visage is that of an accomplished scholar, always marred by profound musings, aged before its time, and certain of the authenticity of his truths, his stance is but a projection of a turbulent existence, shoulders brought forward and bent spine almost defensive, protecting his core from unseen peril.

Banner fits the bill to a T.

Well, maybe for that one, nowadays occasional, instance when he loses control and turns into an enormous green rage monster (that is, also, a quirk that I find particularly appealing. After all, who doesn’t enjoy the delicious temperamental outbursts of a generally collected man, especially in an erotic setting)  as the genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist and, secretly Captain America enthusiast, Tony Stark put it, doctor Bruce Banner is the summation of my preferences in a sexual and potentially romantic partner of the opposite gender, and that is exactly what makes it so much of a damn laborious task for me to admit to my friends’ otherwise accurate deductions – we inhabit the same building.

Our short and infrequent interactions have been mostly governed by witty banter and platonic flirting, and, considering his taciturn nature and my reticent-in-the-beginning custom, I, biased or not, would prefer considering it a glorious accomplishment credited to my questionably irresistible womanly charms, the advanced schooling imposed upon me by the rigid parentage during I was graced with from an unforgivably early and less that joyous age, and my rebellious outbursts, brief but numerous escapes to enough karaoke bars to solidify my tipsy belting out of eighties ballads potpourri and rid me of the certain social awkwardness I would have been subjected to, should I have obeyed each and every one of my family’s preposterous demands.

Unbeknownst to my peers, alcohol only becomes an antagonist to my self-awareness when consumed in superfluous quantities. A responsible percentage of it in my bloodstream, however, does wonders in increasing my chances of success in any sexual pursuit I set my mind to, which is why, as I’m possibly failing in my attempts to, discreetly as I can, stare at him as he’s unperturbedly scribbling at lab report, I lament my absolute sobriety, trying to work my way around my alert conscience, to disinhibit myself from the tongue-paralysing prospect of my prepositioning taking out ingenuous coquetry further than ethical in a working environment and, thus, probable dismissal of it.

I really,  _really_  need to fuck him, and, as the mere thought of it is converted by my overly active brain into graphic imagery, my breath hitches and a short, but inevitably audible sigh of frustration and pleasure altogether escapes into the lab, to my utter mortification.

Bruce’s hand stills, his face directed towards me, a look of pointed inquiry livening it with uncharacteristic expression.

“I’ve got a stitch in my side,” I grumble, trying to sound affected, but his eyebrows rise in amusement and incredulity. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“You’ve been gawking at me for the last fifteen minutes or so for no reason. I get to do the same when you’re telling me you’ve got ‘a stitch in your side’ considering we’ve been together for at least a couple of hours and doing nothing other than pressing buttons and taking notes. What’s going on?”

Ridding myself of the astonishment of hearing him articulate such a consistent phrase at one time (again, uncharacteristic), I mumble a ‘nothing’ and ignore his sceptical look.

He places the pen on the table and pushes his glasses up his nose, and I mentally bitch slap myself for not telling him I’m on my period or have a terrible headache as I would’ve normally done. There’s no use doing that now, as he wouldn’t believe me even if it were true, so the only thing left to do is try to avoid answering until he grows bored with pestering me.

Two minutes filled with one sided questions on his part and awkward silences on mine, he becomes impatient and resolves to simply stating my name, much akin to an impossible ultimatum. Instead of feeling cornered, I relish in the frustration marring his tone – if I have the power to upset this man, what else can I do?

“Bruce, shut up.”

To my surprise, he does.

I take a couple of tentative steps towards him, paying close attention to his reactions. In cases like these, I find the neutrality he’s currently displaying to be my worst enemy, as it provides me with no clue as to either continue or cease my pursuit, so, without much to guide me, I can do no more than go on a limb and assume his silence is manifestation of serious confusion, which enables me to proceed until he makes up his mind. When he doesn’t flinch as my hand cups his cheek, but leans into the touch and then into the kiss I cautiously initiate I can cry with happiness.

“Banner, if that’s okay with you, I kind of want you to just give it to me raw on the table.”

He chuckles, eyes lightening with mirth, “Well, I kind of want to just give it to you raw on the table, too, if that’s okay with you, although going at it bareback seems kind of irresponsible, doesn’t it,  _doctor_  Davies?”

At least one of us has got their wits about them.

“I’m a physicist, not a physician,  _doctor_ Banner. I’m also clean and hooked up with an IUD.”

“An IUD?”

“Yes, an IUD, give me an ultrasound if you want,” I sardonically answer his question, so close to fulfilling my past months’ desire, but kept from advancing for the sake of discussing (all in all essential) technicalities like my preferred choice of contraception.

“It’s not what I meant. Isn’t that kind of invasive?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Do you seriously want to discuss the pros and cons of a damn IUD right before sex? It’s there and it’s effective, so would you just fuck me already, Bruce? Pretty fucking  _please_?”

With another merry laugh, Bruce Banner pulls me close to him and pecks me on the lips.

“JARVIS, would you lock the door, please?”

**Author's Note:**

> I was writing Tom Hiddleston-related things, and then he made an appearance at Wimbledon looking all preppy and perfect and shit (you know, the usual. Except for that hat. Sir, Satan called, he wants the straw hat back. He wore that motherfucking abomination with a Ralph Lauren three piece *shudders* People say things about him wearing glasses, but I don’t remember ever seeing him with gasses on. Not even that one time at Top Gear > or the Comic Relief pictures. Oh, well) and I just lost my ability to can. If you see my can please send it my way, I desperately need it back.
> 
> Then I remembered this little thing and did some editing/filling in because when is not the right time for Bruce Banner. 
> 
> Fucking super attractive geniuses, man. They decimate poor little fangirls like us.
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading. Should you spot out any mistakes, feel free to give me an earful. Criticism is always appreciated and encouraged. 
> 
> Stay golden *throws Skittles at you*


End file.
